Number Upgrade

I’d like to think that on December 31 everyone was somewhere, sitting alone or in a crew, thinking over the way his or her life has played out in the year 2016. Were you happy, sad, terrified or angry for the majority of it? Is there someone in your life that wasn’t a year ago? Or did someone disappear from it? What have you discovered and learned?

These questions I unknowingly seemed to ask myself throughout the day while in a painful montage of reminiscing in the events of the past year. I sit alone now, in my bedroom with a flickering light above and I wonder about it all. I see the posts being made on Facebook of hope and inspiring motivation yet I don’t believe that just because the number changes from ‘6’ to ‘7’ it makes a difference. If you wanted change you would have done it, if you wanted to find yourself you would have looked and if you wanted to let it go it would have been gone by now.

Yet we dream, and believe in a new beginning. I do it more often than most. I would rather not go into detail about the various heart breaking attractions that took place in the last twelve months but I would rather take part in the hope and inspiring motivation to show realness and honesty instead of sayings that we’ve heard multiple times yet they don’t really stick with us for longer than two minutes.

I thought I knew who I was entering 2016, and I trusted the impact that other people had on the things that took place in my life. I was willing to let go of a love I never thought would end and I managed to meet only one person who challenged me to find who I truly want to be. I sat alone for the most part and shut out everything and everyone. We all lose touch of what we want and where we wanna go, but the fact that we stay to welcome the next year with somewhat open arms seems like enough of a reason to continue going and maybe even improving upon the things we wish to become.

I’ve realized that time can heal almost anything and that memories come and go and we should let them take their toll, do their part in reminding us of our mistakes. We should cry about it and then let them go to return another time until one day they stop. I learned that people would do what they wish no matter what advice you give or how amazing it can be. I also realized that finding yourself doesn’t happen over night, and the first step is to let go of trying to find your old self because that was only a stepping-stone in being who you are.

I remember writing down my thoughts about the year every December 31 , and I remember an excitement of a new beginning and the idea of hope, of all the things to come that might actually go my way for once. This upcoming year though, I’ve revised the way I think and how I plan. Reality is the worst to face, but it’s also the one true thing in life that won’t build up hope to have it shatter. But now I understand that maybe hope was meant to be shattered, so when things finally come through for you, you’ll be much happier than you’ve ever been and maybe life is about being content or maybe it’s about so much more than just happiness.

This upcoming year, I want to find out all the things I never imagined I’d know, and all the things I’d like to see come true and when they don’t, I’ll live because I’ll have new beginnings always.

A Father’s Day Piece

Dear Son,

If you are reading this, then I have undoubtedly reached the peak of my existence. Nothing seems to make sense anymore. It’s the math that does not add up. I have never been good at planning nor calculating stuff, especially the future. I am more of an irrational fella. The live in the moment type of guy. I digress.

For months, I have been staring at this page, mentally merging a series of syllables hoping they would make sense, however every single sentence seems vaguer than the previous one. Yet here I pen, words engulfed by uncertainty. Such is life son, Uncertain. There will come a time that you, son, will stand alone. Much like the last leaf of a dying tree, shivering and exposed. The faith you so firmly cling to will be snatched from your fragile hands when you least expect it. I know this will happen for undying is the hope that you, will be a great man and great men fall. I hope you pick up the pieces like the man you are, for you will desire a salvation that will be too far-fetched. Learn to stand alone boy! Strong is after all, he who stands alone!

I have made mistakes. Countless of them. Mistakes I am not proud of. I am just an ordinary man still drowning in the rivers of uncertainty. I am a man who uses the ‘ I am just human’ phrase as an excuse for my mistakes. I hope you do not turn out like me. So often it is said that the apple does not fall far from the tree, well, it’s a lie son. Be your own man. I know one day you will turn of age and the world will expect you to conform to certain expectations.

Through the eye of the needle you will be squeezed but do not let them change you. I am fully aware that I will be blamed for breeding a rebel. A boy who does not conform. It’s okay not to. It’s even okay to use your brain as often as you can. Think independently. Make decisions on your own. See, I’d hate it if you end up twisted as the people you will join in campus. Snorting cocaine and smoking weed.

There is nothing higher about educating yourself to do wrong just because others are. I hope the mistakes you make will be of your own volition. I hope you will own up to them like a man, for it would be disgraceful if you followed in my footsteps. If you made the same mistakes I did and deny them.

Although you are your fathers’ son please don’t turn out like me. Son, I genuinely hope you fall far from this tree!

With regards, Dad.

Rantings of an addict.

Dear diary.

He died.
Forgive me for marking this beginning with an inevitable end but I wallow in an abundance of fear. The same Fear that has damned me to a fate far worse than the anticipation of death in itself.

Allow me temporarily consider myself a medic of sorts. I am after all exposed to  the common fashion in which the last hour dawns. It’s the feet that often pave way for betrayal when they run cold and the chill slowly ascends to the knees, eventually mounting itself to the waist. Sad really but still, there is nothing as depressing as thinking you have a chance when you really don’t. Death however is a rather simple affair.

Today, Life stealthily crept out of his mortality via his lungs. The adrenalin pumping through his veins leaked his blood into crevices. His bones collapsed on themselves long before his heart forced his body into an unending mass series of seizures. Such intense pain reduced the rhythmic beats of his frail heart to one deafening noise. Silence.

“You’ll get over it…”

It’s the clichés that tend to cause the trouble. To loose someone you care about is to alter your life forever. Watching them fall to their demise is a whole other conundrum. Legitimate on its own. You don’t get over it. You never do. Although the pain stops and there are new faces in your life, the gap never really closes. I mean, How could it? The particular ness of someone who mattered enough to grieve over is not made anodyne by death. Eventually the lies we tell ourselves crumble like pastry. But, here is the truth about the truth, it hurts. So we lie, even to ourselves.

Everyone around here knows its the ice that broke all his strings. Its called ‘ice’ cause after the 1-2-3 lines its the blood that runs cold. Before you know it, you are reduced to skin and bones that no amount of layers really ever keeps you warm. Then, you are isolated and automatically sell your own soul  just to relieve the ‘high’ one more time. You keep going back, hoping. Praying it will be a real turn on just as the first time the toxins ever made love to your bloodstream. You never really do get around to relieving that moment though. You can’t. And after enough of your life passes you by, then you realize its your heart that’s turned cold.

Well, I am tired of pretending to be ‘fine’ when I am not. I have problems. Lots of them. So it is said. Perhaps, it is the sole reason why I harbor an abundance of loathing and anger. I am angry that the things I turned to for solace have abused me in such a disgraceful manner. They after all have me whipped like a modern day slave. Perhaps I am angry at the universe for not recognizing my problem in time. My problem is  a real issue. I mean,  No one ever wants to talk about the seventeen year old with an anxiety disorder, hooked up on meds that she can’t stop talking unless she is okay with having random panic attacks. Nobody wants to talk about the forty something year old man that recently underwent life changing  surgery and to numb the pain, he clings firmly to pain killers despite the constant precipitation, nausea and extreme depression.
No one wants to talk about ‘rebels’ like myself hooked on ‘Mary Jane’. ‘Molly’ and Johnny Walker’s entire fraternity.

Truth is, no one wants to talk about us because then the society would have to recognize the existence of a real problem and  it would be forced to care for us. The same humans whom have been reduced to stepping stones to make the universe feel better about itself.
Nobody wants to talk about it until it is at the point of no return. Then it becomes ‘their fault’.

Maybe, just maybe, there is no redemption for an addict.



Your wrenched article pierced my soul. Pierced it with an inferno of dread and painful discomfort. I read and reread it but still the pain streaking gaping hole left in my heart continued to bleed. I felt like you had driven a silver stake of reality into my carefully woven web of my world of dreams and hopes. Like you had deliberately de-humanized me and torn my life apart from the inside.

When I tried to sleep, sleep evaded me like I was something even unworthy of such subtle comforts. My mind was filled with shame and suicidal thoughts of hopelessness, totally undeserving of my very essence of manhood. Even when I caught a glimpse of sleep, nightmares made me turn on my already sweat drenched sheets like one of those roasted chickens displayed by city restaurants on their windows.

But when I came to my senses, it didn’t matter what you said about me, and the rest of my breed of incoherent, unwanted group of omega males living up to their reputation like a barge of pride and achievement. I felt I had to stand up. If not for myself, which you said I am incapable of, then for the rest of us. As a collective voice for all those ‘inferior’ hound of men littered all over our streets and not uncommon in our homes, I say, ITS ABOUT DAMN TIME WE SPOKE UP!

I am not going to waste your time with a crap load of self-pity and defensiveness, no, I will tell you justifiably my true worth in society. It’s impossible to sum it all up with just one world but if that was the case, it would be IDEAS. An idea is no doubt the fuel that run our world and all human kind for that matter. But ideas have only one place of origin, they incubate in the minds of ‘the poor fellas who spend their days masturbating and playing video games’. The true masterminds behind all human innovation and achievement throughout universal history. Be it Einstein or the unappreciated ape who invented fire. These men were not alphas and yes, they weren’t loved as much by anyone for that matter. But without a doubt, they were and still are, epic.
The so called alphas, have only the purpose of perpetuating our ideas and are nothing more than flesh welded robots integrated into society to carry out the dirty work of actuating our prewritten formulas of success which they themselves alone without us cannot produce.

Yes, we are caught up in our piped dreams. Why? Because we understand what’s at stake. The true purpose of existence merely lies in the discovery of one’s true destiny and WE-have not given up to do what we were made for. It is our desire to succeed through that means and see past the veil of just making mere worthless pieces of paper so called money, even if we have to ‘vampirishly’ suck the rest of humanity dry by being totally dependent on them for upkeep. That’s the price they have to pay for diverting their paths away from their dreams and becoming self-righteously diligent and hard-working. There is no greater gift than seeing the world in a child’s eyes.

The betas, that breed of good for nothing, self-pitting, too conforming, confused role group are not even close to being higher than us in the social pyramid. Do they even know the mortal rule of self-preservation? Who in their right minds would degrade themselves to such level of servitude just to please an unforgiving society like the one we live in. They are indeed the truly hopeless case and the self-righteous authors of the moral code should rethink the crime of existence of such a phony and disgusting excuse of a male.

So, the truly demanding question left at hand is this. Am I proud to be an omega male? Hell NO! That is unless we change that title of course to something more appropriate. But do I love myself the way I AM? Maybe.

The truth is, I would rather be me but since human beings cannot remain stagnant unless they are somewhere stuck 6 feet under dirt. So, on my way up the ladder of society and male evolution, I only wish that I will surpass all the way up and when I finally realize my dreams, you will come running to lick the feet of the omega male you once loathed with unquenchable passion.

Written by Ed Munga.

(In response to “Don’t be the man women love to hate” by @RoxanneKenya)

Open Letter.


So many are the drafted letters addressed to you, never to be sent. It would be wrong to confine your being into a series and sequence of mere words. You, my love are perfect. I know you are. Perhaps such concepts are too far fetched to be adequately grasped as truth, but they are. So vehemently you claim to know thyself better. You don’t.

It is I after all who knows how the corner of those lips curve into a tiny mischievous smile every time your joy is torched by the flames you constantly swear never to run back to and all that is always left is fury set on consuming you whole. Yet still, it is beautiful. Just as beautiful as you are, my love.

You hate when i call you that, don’t you? Love. A thousand swords plunge through my heart every time those eyes twitch with loathing when I christen you with sugarcoated names and all I can think of is the sounds of cracking ice at dawn.Shattering but not bleeding. I cannot help how my words provoke you. You hate it. In fact, You hate a lot of things. You hate me. I am a lot of things.

Remember the little snippets of literature you shared with me??. fictitious. All pure lies. You said. Well, i read them all. Word by word. Sentence by sentence. I needed to know who made you cry at the end of each chapter and why. Love, In those leaflets, I met those friends and foes, So often brought to life every time you talk about them. Nothing is fictious.They are real. Perhaps a little too real.

I now understand that those are not just stories. Far from it. Its fighting for what’s real. Its experiencing true love and true loss all in the same accord. If only, you took the time to weep for me as you do, those characters.I am jealous. How I wish I made you smile as much as that personality who lives in your phone. Constantly set on interrupting our conversations with those flirty texts embedded with emoticons.

If only you would let your body sway to new, foreign rhythms rather than the lies in that genre you so worship.You would be happy.We would be happy. It takes time though, to love. This i know, so I will wait.

However, If you’re ever going to fall in love with me, don’t fall in love with the way I look after spending hours getting ready, my fake smile or when I pretend to be something I’m not.

Fall in love with my honesty, impatience, kindness, jealousy.Fall in love with me when I feel ugly, sad, and in pain. Fall in love with my
scars, my marks and all the things that make me far less than perfect. Fall in love with every part of me, both good and bad and especially with all my flaws.

Honey. As my pen bleeds onto this page, I do hope you soon realize that, You owe me that love you so freely give to other people.

Yours sincerely
With lots of love,



Into the nothingness that oblivion had to offer, He glared, perhaps with hope that the stillness of the night held the right questions to the already formulated answers. He felt desolated and unloved. It could be easily said that it was the worst he had ever felt. It however wasn’t. The regret of never doing a thing about had continuously stabbed him.

It had been barely a month since her departure. At first, he was fine. With contentment came freedom and liberation. Like the macho he had always been, He built an aura around himself.

It was her words however that never ceased piercing his new facade of happiness.

Yoseff, I am tired of playing second fiddle. I want out

With so much calmness in her voice, she had made a declaration. The words were precise as though they had been rehearsed over and over again. It would have even sounded cruel had he been paying attention. He, however was too intoxicated to even take notice of her existence.

At the time, she wasn’t worth the begging. Not even the empty promises of nothingness did she deserve

He took big swings from his glass. The music in the nightclub dimmed in his head. Hollowness engulfed him just as it had engulfed the glass that stood calmly before him. The facade, irritated him. He missed her. Secretly, he prayed she missed him too. Yet, still the question the universe longed to ask was; what was there to miss?!

She had moved on. He knew it. He recalled their last encounter at a local mall. She looked happy. His eyes slowly devoured her from a safe distance, each glimpse savoring her existence. He took note of her pursed lips and the urge to unravel the secret behind them crept over him. He wondered if her tongue would still be elusive from his prodding one when they kissed. The longing of intertwining his fingers in hers began to eat him up more than the burning desire to stare into the depth of her eyes. But, by her side was another man who held the small of her hand as though to boast of his victory.

Yoseff looked down at his shoes. Accessing every speck of dust on it like a confused little school boy. Raising his eyes back at her, to stare. Just a little more. He then saw nothing. It was strange. He had become a mere stranger. Deep within he knew “they” ceased existing, But the memories did.

Pain and anger jolted him out his reverie. That was a week ago when his resolve of being fine went through the window. Jealousy suffocated his insides. The man she was with, looked like a potential family man. He wished it was he. Had beggars however been choosers the sky would be cloudy with a chance of meatballs.

Raising the glass to the light he scrutinized the contents.